Plowed Field

 kline, franz, figure eight, 1952

 

Cross me off your list again, I cannot stand to wither here
within your self pity. Back and forth with relentless
shares, turning over my tortured body, churning
me into the bedrock of your plowed field.
No fertilized sod will come of this.
No crops to tend.
Nothing but
dust.

 

Written July 25, 2012

 

 

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